


Knives and Sparks

by hawkins437



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Comedy, Friendship, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 18:14:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2357492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkins437/pseuds/hawkins437
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither of them could suffer the other and yet together they found themselves on an adventure of lifetime. Marcurio x non-Dragonborn female Dunmer OC</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knives and Sparks

**Author's Note:**

> I started this a while ago and haven't really gotten the time to work on it since. To be continued eventually.

Rovaniol Llevvandrael was all you would expect in a thief—ruthless, cut-throaty, slick and agile, sly and witty, and... A Dunmer; and above all: an extremely cheeky person.

She was born in Riften in the northeast: the famed corrupted city and a base of the infamous Thieves Guild. Despite claimings that they were but a meek group of disorganised vagabonds—believe that those are but lies told by the people that were fed from their thieving hands. Rovaniol, for one, knew better as she was part of their organisation.

She grew up on the street, among the dung and rats and reek of fish. Her father was far from honest himself, making his living by intimidation and protection money, and her mother, Rovaniol has never met. It was, by no means, an ideal childhood and her father, by no means, a good role-model and her would even deny any contrary implying statements. He taught her daughter the art of combat—one of his redeeming qualities if one could call it that way considering the use his precious daughter made of these talents—at the age of twelve, Rovaniol was skilled in dual-wield and archery, and no stranger to fights neither.

Joining the Guild seemed like a logical decision. There was far too much mercenaries to be had already and Nords were distrustful of elves still, and of their sneaky, quiet, ‘cowardly’ ways of battle. They all preferred the daft fools that were willing to lose their heads and life in the first line of battle, dragging themselves like slimes in that useless, heavy armour and ridiculously weighty swords and axes and maces and shields... Dexterity and silence was her trade and she could practice that much with or without her swords, her long, nimble fingers knowing a way into everyone’s pocket, her dagger knowing how to reach everyone’s coin purse, and most of all—her set of lock-picks knowing the way how to conquer every type of lock to be found across all of Tamriel—or at least most of them, she entertained.

While Cyrodiil had a Grey Fox, Riften had Rovaniol, though her nickname was not nearly as impressive or original: a Shadow-hide. If you lived in Riften and were robbed, pickpocketed or had your house sacked, chances were that Shadow-hide was behind it. Personally, she considered the nickname stupid and it was not of her own choosing, but she supposed it was better than ‘doe’, which is how one of her ‘colleagues’ called her when he grabbed her buttocks as he expressed his desires to make himself acquainted with the Dunmer girl in the more intimate manner.—And so Rovaniol found herself an unwelcome scoundrel among the unwelcome scoundrels. However astonishing her talents might have been, the blood prize was too high for her to pay, and there was little work to be had in Riften for her to obtain such large amount of money.

And thus, Rovaniol found herself wandering the country; doing ‘honest’ and oh so despicably boring work of helping on local farms, saw mills and mines.

* * *

Leaving Cyrodiil for Skyrim was not the best idea, he realised only too late. Bringing magic into the lands of non-magic users that were suspicious and distrustful towards mages, what was he even thinking? Oh well, let us say that Marcurio was always saying things before thinking them through—and the same went for his tendency of taking action before thinking it through and realising the consequences. Furthermore he was an Imperial—a reminder of Skyrim’s ‘glorious’ past within the Empire of Tamriel, which now lay in ruins, Imperials and Aldmer struggling for the dominion amongst themselves, and Skyrim herself torn apart by the civil war between the ‘true’ Nords and their ‘mindless’ impostors of the brothers that supported the maintaining of the old Empire, that lacked the ruler after the last Septim has passed away. Needless to say, all these little details escaped his notice when he set on the road, and when he did realise he was too far away to afford a journey back to Cyrodiil and the only way was to keep going—and so he found himself in the ‘glorious’ hold of Riften. There is, of course, not the least doubt about Riften being a glory of architectural nature; it is the questionable political meddlings of local ruling family that lend the word glory so ironic a tone.

Upon his arrival in Riften, however, another question emerged out of the void of his mind: just what was he supposed to do here? The Jarl had a court mage of her own already, as queer and forgetful as she was, and even if she had not, he was not at all qualified to take up such mantle just yet, seeing as he was just fresh off his apprentice-hood. Once again he had to curse the quickness of his action and delay of his thinking. As his dear tutor from the Arcane University back in the Imperial City would note: “he should have waited until the pace of his reasoning equalled the pace of his speech”, but Marcurio, of course, knew better than the old man.

Riften was not suited for the services of a mage, whatever was his prowess in the arcane matters; the town fed from theft and robbery and that was the subject he certainly was not skilled in. Furthermore, he pushed his luck even upon trying to enter the city, seeing as he threatened to shoot lightning bolts at the city guard if they tried to keep him from entering the city by the ridiculous entrance fees they charged. Needless to say, the entrance fees seemed rather high for entering such glorified rat-hole as Riften.

At first, he tried mercenary work only to find himself collecting ingredients for the local alchemist, who was not at all an agreeable fellow and constantly had some sort of a problem with the goods Marcurio brought him. That was until his attitude got better of the impatient mage and he declared that the old fool should throw himself ‘deep in to the fiery chasms of Akatosh’s’, which was not met by amusement from the elder’s side, rather he took his wife’s broom and used it to drive Marcurio out of his doors, yelling various curses and throwing some of his precious poison vials at the young mage, so that he would never again dare to set his ‘dirty Imperial feet’ in his shop. And so Marcurio heeded his call and never did set his foot to the shop again. Instead he spent most of his time in The Bee and the Barb, drinking expensive mead and shooting lightning bolts at fools.

That was until he met certain Dunmer maiden.


End file.
